


this margin walker wants a clear shot

by yiffin (kesi)



Category: Polygon RPF
Genre: Character Death, Gen, PUBG AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesi/pseuds/yiffin
Summary: PUBG is real, and our boys are in it.





	this margin walker wants a clear shot

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic I've ever published to AO3, so if I've done something hilariously wrong, let me know! 
> 
> [title from fugazi's 'margin walker']
> 
> thanks to @Amaranthine_Siren for proofreading this spontaneously!

“Ear contact,” Griffin whispers.

Nick doesn’t answer. He hasn’t answered in a while.

At least two people are now in the house with them, judging by the voices crawling up through the old floorboards into the attic. Griffin hopes that they will notice that every door in the house has been kicked open already, that no drawer has been left unopened. That’s how they found it when they arrived there.

This group – they have lost less friends, if any. But up here, it was just Griffin and… whatever was left of Nick, their squadmates long gone.

Pat died early in this battle. Mere seconds after the drop, he got in a fist fight – over _a backpack_ , of all things. He was about to knock his enemy out when he felt a cool blade run across his neck. It was a messy death.

Russ? Sweet, stupid Russ. When your health is down to 5%, a stiff breeze might knock you out. Running in front of a still rolling car certainly will. A tragic, but preventable death.

Then, it was just Nick and Griffin. The two of them are good at what they do, they work well together. That’s how they made it so far into the game: no long strategy discussions, no fights over where to go next. But after a particularly great streak of sniping other players from the rooftop of a warehouse, they got too cocky. They wanted more guns, better guns, and one of the last houses they hadn’t checked out yet was across the open field. And Nick got caught in the crossfire right outside the door.

Griffin tended to Nick’s injuries as well as he could – well, he tried to, but there’s not much you can do without medical supplies or water. The arm should be fine thanks to a makeshift tourniquet ( _RIP in pieces, second favorite shirt_ ), but he didn’t even bother to check where the blood came from that was seeping through Nick’s tank; the Survival Handbook’s recommendation for treatment of abdominal gunshot wounds is to _pray_. But the prayers didn’t seem to have much effect on Nick’s drifting in and out of consciousness, on his body getting more and more limp in Griffin’s arms. 

“Guys, let’s get out. No ammo for us in here,” someone downstairs says. 

“You’re right. It was a waste of time. Hey, Dave, where are you? We’re leaving.” A second voice.

“There’s a lot of blood going up these stairs, I’ll go check out the body.”

 _Shit_.

Griffin moves out from behind Nick, propping him up against the wall. Nick’s head just falls to the side – he doesn’t have much time left. Through the crack of the slightly opened attic door, Griffin can see “Dave” looking closely at the ground, trying to follow the trail of blood. He picks up his revolver, aims and – 

“Boom! Headshot.”

“Dave” collapses to the ground and seconds later Griffin hears frantic shouting and a car speeding off into the distance. _Cowards_.

He turns around to Nick and smiles. Even half dead and lying in a pool of blood, Nick is beautiful.

_But it’s time to win this game._

Griffin pulls his knife from his pocket and, with the one shirt sleeve he has left, rubs some of Pat’s dried blood off the blade.

“I’m sorry, Nick, I’m so sorry,” he whispers to himself as he counts Nick’s ribs through the shirt. _Three, four, five_ – right here. He checks again that he’s got the site and angle right – there’s no need to make this any worse than it has to be – and puts his arm around Nick.

Nick’s eyes open in shock when the tip of the knife first punctures his skin.

“Griffy, plea–”

With all his strength, Griffin forces the knife through the space between Nick’s ribs and pulls it to the side. He holds Nick close until the light coming through the window changes when the big hologram in the sky announces Nick’s death. 

“Team ‘Awful Squad’: Traitor wins. In game: Final three players,” a robotic voice booms.

_Time to hunt down the last two._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
